


What Horizons May Be Seen from the Halls of the Hotel de Ville

by AMarguerite



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 1830 revolution, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:05:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/pseuds/AMarguerite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joly's exhausted by the three days of fighting during the 1830 Revolution. Fortunately Bossuet's there to provide a pillow when he needs one. Hurt/comfort as requested by TheOnlyCheeseLeft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Horizons May Be Seen from the Halls of the Hotel de Ville

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheesethesecond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheesethesecond/gifts).



At the Hotel de Ville they were beginning to be nervous. The euphoria of battle had begun to ebb, leaving a soul-deep weariness almost impossible to treat while crammed together in the halls of the Hotel de Ville waiting, interminably waiting, to see if the new republic they had fought for would arrive. They had accomplished wonders in its name— four thousand barricades, at Bahorel’s last count, had sprung up almost overnight between Wednesday and that morning, the white and gold flags of the Bourbon monarchy had, by some mysterious alchemy, all turned to republican tricolors, one even floating high above Notre Dame, the Louvre had been taken but not looted, the Tuileries had been taken at 1:30 that afternoon, the Bourbons had fled— and yet, thought Joly, so weary it physically hurt to be awake, an hour of waiting while more powerful men debated the future of France seemed to drag on for a year. The three days of fighting on the barricades had seemed like a dream outside of time, a flash of images and noise, no more.

Some were still in high spirits— there was an impromptu chorus and harmony of La Marseilles in some corner, in another there were loud and cheerful toasts for everyone from Danton to Robespierre to Lafayette— but Joly was tired and the bayonet gashes and the splinters from the barricades hurt his forearms dreadfully. The bright and brilliant hope that had sustained him had vanished. Joly could not meet Enjolras’s radiant gaze, could not endure Courfeyrac’s overflowing good humor. He was tired and miserable and his legs hurt and his arms hurt and even his eyes hurt from lack of sleep. Joly just knew that something would go wrong, he felt it as he felt the air around his throbbing bayonet wound. Whether it was with him or with the new republic he did not know and that lack of knowledge terrified him. He abruptly wandered away from the rest of the group. There was an unoccupied bit of wall two feet away and Joly wanted nothing more than to sit with his back against it.

But this wasn’t much relief. As soon as his feet stopped hurting, Joly became painfully aware of the bayonet wound on his right forearm. He couldn’t help but roll up his sleeves to check on his various wounds. He had dressed them himself (under Combeferre’s direction) and had checked at least three or four times to make sure that the wound hadn’t turned septic, but still. One could never be too careful, the blade had passed awfully close to the translucent skin of his wrist and all the veins and arteries below. Joly was so nervous he had to stare at his forearm again, to make sure that he hadn’t been mistaken and that all his veins were still intact.

“Can I join you?” asked Bossuet, sounding as tired as Joly felt. It seemed years since they had helped take the Tuileries.

Joly couldn’t help but pick at his bandage.

“Jolllly? You alright, my friend?”

Joly didn’t know how to respond and only slid over a little, so Bossuet could sit next to him. Joly nervously debated with himself— should he expose the open wound to the horrible miasmas and oppressive heat here, or should he leave it and possibly die of septicemia? And what of that splinter in the flesh of his thumb, was it still there? Joly picked and picked at the spot.

Bossuet watched him, non-judgmentally, and said, “Did you sleep at all?”

“A little,” said Joly. He and Bossuet had slept back-to-back, an uncomfortable but comforting posture, for the past three days. Joly had missed Musichetta as old veterans missed phantom limbs. He could have wept out of desire for her, and their bed, and the smell of her hair.

“Me neither,” said Bossuet. “You are the best friend a man could ask for, but also the worst bed.” He was slumped against the wall, his legs splayed out in front of him. Joly had his legs drawn up to his chest, his right arm balanced across them. Bossuet nudged Joly’s leg with his own.

“I’m so afraid—” Joly burst out, but could not finish.

But Bossuet understood. He scooted back and snuck an arm around Joly’s shoulders. “Have Combeferre look at your arm when you’ve rested. And Enjolras sent Courfeyrac and Bahorel to ask the clerks at the Hotel de Ville, and the rest of the revolutionary groups, if there has been any progress. Musichetta’s fine, Rosalie came out to see all the commotion at the Hotel de Ville and said as much to Bahorel, before she went to go get more linen for Combeferre to use as bandages. Let me see your thumb.”

Joly was too exhausted to protest. He leaned into Bossuet’s slumped and comfortable figure. Bossuet’s clothes had been worn into softness and his hands were gentle. He studied Joly’s palm with more attention than he had ever given to his law lectures. “Ah look at that, Jolllly, you’ve pulled out the splinter. Well done.”

Joly’s set of overpowering anxieties shifted. “But no one knows where Charles X is, the provisional government may not last—”

“And then we take to the barricades again,” said Bossuet, tucking the unprotesting Joly closer against him. “And we fight and we win and we get a Republic. I’ll be with you again. No matter what, Joly, I’ll be right beside you.”

Joly at last felt himself begin to relax. He was too tired to mind how lumpy a bed the human body made, or how hot the air was, or how uncertain the future. Bousset had been with him, was with him, would always be with him. The world was a safe place when viewed with a half-lidded gaze, with one’s head on Bossuet’s chest. Bossuet’s breathing was deep and even, his embrace gentle and all-encompassing. If all went well or all went ill, they would still be together. There was no fear of ever being alone, with no one to care for him, no fear of finding himself alone against a glittering sea of bayonets.

And in that security Joly momentarily forgot his other fears. He rested and he waited and slept. He began to dream. And when he woke, his ear pressed against Bossuet’s chest, his heartbeat a constant, pounding joy like the sounding of the toscin bells two or three days before, Joly once again, tentatively, began to hope.


End file.
